Times New Roman
by Verbal Kint10
Summary: Five times Wilson gave House a present and one time House returned the favor.


**Times New Roman  
**

**#1: The Watch**

"_When a man is happy, he does not hear the clock strike"_

_-German Proverb_

It was 28 degrees outside, and House had pit stains. They'd just run two miles without stopping and were well into a third, granted, but the exercise only served to keep feeling in Wilson's toes. House, on the other hand, was downright toasty. Once they'd passed the same old naked oak tree for a third time, they stopped, stumbling over to a free bench to catch their breaths and admire the park from a still life perspective.

Even House was cold now. They panted like old, sick dogs, blowing their hot breath into the faces of strangers brave enough to take a walk against the frigid wind. They all smiled though. It was Christmas, and if you were in the ass-solidifying cold instead of at home with bulk purchases of hot chocolate, you probably had something in common with the rest of the crazies at Bower Park. The two craziest of these crazies now sat together, closer than warmer circumstances would permit, watching Christmas end.

House always said that you could only be considered 'in-shape' if you could talk normally one-minute after a run. Wilson failed this test so miserably that he was speaking in one-word sentences. "I. Got. You. Something," he gasped, "For. Christmas."

House stretched out his legs into the foot traffic of more crazies, smiling. "How kind of _Jew,_" he said. Wilson put his hands over his face, suppressing a groan and managing to laugh at the same time. "What?" asked House. Deviousness poured from the question like spit from a tall balcony. "Am I a _pun_k? Do you just wanna _pun_ch me?"

Wilson shook his head. "I just want to give you the damn present already!"

House folded his arms to match Wilson. "Fine, what is it? A back rub? Paul Newman's penis in a jar? Your penis in a jar?"

Wilson brandished the small black box to shut him up, pulling a glove off to open it.

"A ring? Wilson, what will your wife think?"

"_My_ wife? You mean, Stacy would be game if I proposed to you?" Wilson raised an eyebrow to add a little class to the fact that he was speaking sloppily out of glove-filled teeth.

"Well, you know how she loves threesomes."

Finally, when both gloves were off and both men had exhausted every possible dirty joke that might follow, Wilson opened the box. "It's a watch," he said.

"That it is," said House, taking the watch out of the box to look it over, letting the little silver links run over his palm in admiration. Staring at his reflection in the face, fantasizing about the scuff marks he'd soon put there with the strain of everyday use. It was a cool watch, why wouldn't he use it every day?

Wilson leaned in, unable to hide his excitement about House's excitement, which was subtle, but nothing a best friend couldn't decipher. "It's a stop watch, too, so you can time how long you run. Or swim, 'cause it's waterproof up to like, twenty feet. I wouldn't get it wet too often, though because of the silver." He went on, explaining features and details as if he'd sold it to himself. House let him, half paying attention, marveling at the fact that Wilson could genuinely be happy about making others happy. He thought about timing other things: sex, boring conversations, how long it took him to get dressed, to undress, to eat breakfast, to spit out a thoroughly witty comeback, everything.

In six months' time, House would use the stopwatch to time the hours between pills.

They stood up slowly, both shivering, and began to walk home, each taking on their own superhero stride despite the cramps and muscle aches. House never said 'thank you,' and Wilson didn't mind.

Wilson turned to House as his paced slowed. "Tomorrow, let's just walk," he said.

**#2: The Hug**

_A real friend is someone who walks in when the rest of the world walks out._

_-Anonymous_

Two days after he died, House got a visitor.

Wilson crept into the room like a small child, frightened of what lay in the bed before him. The electric sounds and squeals and rasps of the medical equipment seemed foreign to him. He heard the beeps of hearts monitors every day, in other rooms, for other people. Not for this person, not in a trillion-billion years. He shuffled over to the hospital bed, the one that was swiftly becoming a coffin. He put his coat down on the chair softly. He sat down softly. He did everything softly, because maybe then he wouldn't hurt House. "Hey," he said…softly.

House didn't answer. He squeezed his eyes tight, trying so hard to pretend that tears weren't soaking through his eyelashes, that they weren't skimming off his cheek and forming salty puddles between his ear and the pillow. "I don't want you to be here."

"Well, I am here." Wilson shut his lips tightly, daring them to tremble.

House didn't turn away. Wilson would've loved to pretend that it was because House didn't want to turn away, that he wanted to talk and tell the truth and recover in four seconds flat and then tell Wilson that tomorrow everything would be okay again. Then they'd sit there in their sandbox of make-believe, and crack jokes about the PBS contentment of their lives.

But House didn't turn away because he couldn't turn away, and Wilson knew that this…this was simply one more way that things were different now. So he asked him a question, one he'd ask now and then never ask again. "How bad is it?"

House put his face towards the pillow, simultaneously choking on a sob and entering his left fist into a boxing match with the metal rail. "Please…get the fuck out of here."

It was the first time Wilson had heard House say 'please.'

But he didn't leave. He sat. He watched. He mentally skimmed through hundreds of things that he could say, each one as meaningless as the last. Still, saying something was saying something, and typically Wilson was good at it. House was gray, and not in the descriptive version of pale sort of way, but actually gray. He looked like a bunch of pebbles skewed over the hospital bed in human form, or a butterfly that'd been demoted to cocoon once more. He looked dead, was dead in almost every way.

House breathed fast, his face shaking in a struggle to stop the tears that were already falling. Wilson put his hand (softly) on top of House's clenched fist, and House didn't flinch. Now House's whole body, save for one leg, was trembling.

"I can't live like this." A metallic ring of tears and pain spewed out of the corpse's mouth, muted by disuse and the pillow he bit down on.

Wilson stood up, not taking his hand off House's. "I'm going to give you thirty minutes of this. Thirty minutes of mindless self-pity. I want you to cry, curse, punch me, and punch anyone who comes through that door, and none of it will have a single consequence. None of it will ever be mentioned again." He fought to get his voice out of his throat. "But after that thirty minutes is up, we're going to start over, and you'll never say what you just said again." He stared at House dry-eyed and stern. "Promise?"

House loosened his grip on the sheets, working hard to control his breathing, trying not to shake. He couldn't talk, not anymore, so he nodded.

Wilson leaned in and wrapped his arms around House's sweaty back. He let tears smear House's hospital gown silently as he hugged House, not expecting House to hug back and not caring if he did. The truth was, the hate would never wash away. These were thirty minutes in the sandbox of make-believe. This was the final departure from Eden. He could offer nothing but a nice try.

For House, nice tries meant nothing. For Wilson, sometimes they were all that mattered. Wilson only moved to keep an eye on the time, glancing up occasionally at House's stopwatch on the table. After 5 minutes, House hugged back.

25 minutes later, Eden was dead. House was still alive.

**#3: The Book**

"_The day after tomorrow is the third day of the rest of your life."_

_-George Carlin_

Wilson dragged his shoes across the mat before going in. There were mats everywhere now, outside the apartment, inside the apartment, next to the door, one more a few feet away from that one. The entire bathroom was carpeted in a wide bridge of mats, as was the hallway that led to the bedroom.

Wilson hit the kitchen first to tell Stacy "Merry Christmas," handing her the big red box that contained a new crock-pot and his semi-secret recipe for black bean chili, meaning that House would probably get more out of this gift than she would. He eyed her toes, two of which were bandaged up after various encounters with unruly crutches, and asked where the Playstation was, knowing that finding it meant finding House as well.

She pointed to the bedroom. He nodded his thanks and proceeded down the hallway, almost tripping on the pair of sneakers leaning lazily out of the hall closet. He scooted them back into the dusty abyss of jackets, golf clubs, and running shoes. A plethora of running shoes, all House's. Now they sat at the back of the closet, welcoming dust bunnies and spiders to use them when no one else would. Wilson looked back to the sneakers at the front. They were the only pair that appeared to have been used within the last six months. Well, the left one. The left one had every sign of love and wear imaginable, from the ripped laces on top, to the gum collection on the bottom. The right looked as though it'd been worn twice.

Their bedroom had become his bedroom, which had shortly thereafter become the Batcave: it looked like one; it smelled like one. Wilson almost didn't go in for fear of disturbing its dark master.

But the dark master bade him enter before he had a chance to turn around. 'Bade him enter' of course meaning a hoarse yell of "Ready for an ass whooping?!" that sprung from the heaps of pillows and blankets inside the Batcave. He could talk. That meant it was a good day.

Wilson shuffled in, practiced Oncologist grin firmly in place, looking House in the eyes and nowhere else. House was currently involved in some sort of ruthless thumb war with the Playstation controller, but found the time to pat the empty space beside him in between battles. Wilson ducked under the TV screen and headed over to the free side of the bed. He ignored the implied awkwardness of sharing a bed with his best friend, if only during the daytime to play violent video games, he told himself.

An extra controller was already on his side of the bed. Wilson smiled dumbly. "You knew I was coming?"

House shook his head, eyes still adhered to the television. "Stacy didn't sleep here last night, didn't need to move it."

Wilson kicked his shoes off and collapsed on the bed, pretending that House would answer honestly when he asked, "Everything okay?"

"Relatively."

Relatively. A word that means so much more than its creators intended it to mean. A word that should not be in existence due to its history of gross misuse. A word that is a curse to the ears of honesty, as after all, the Titanic was 'relatively' unsinkable.

Wilson picked up his controller and managed to look away from House. "What does that mean?"

"It means," said House, biting the inside of his mouth, "that things are okay aside from gas prices, our man-whore president, and the fact that it takes me 45 minutes to shit."

Wilson nodded at the television. Relatively okay.

"How're things at the hospital?"

Wilson looked over to House, and for a second he wasn't sure the voice came from him. It was there though, the slap marks of curiosity were causing his upper lip to flex and his jaw to sit forward. "Since when do you want to know about the hospital?"

"Since you became main Grim Reaper."

Wilson shrugged. Well, you know our motto, "Princeton Plainsboro Oncology Department: We're dreaming of some white blood cells."

Wilson would have to remind himself to feel very guilty about that later. As in, even guiltier than right now. House smiled at the screen. "I thought your motto was Tumor Chia Pets: Watch 'em grow!"

Wilson looked at the controller in his hands. "It's, you know, the same. I mean, I can't speak for your interest in the hundred cases of severe sniffles that plow through the clinic every week, but mostly it's boring," he lied. He pointed to the screen, "No grenades or AK-47s either."

House nodded, comforted to hear it even though he didn't believe it.

They played for the rest of the day, and House made good on his promise of ass-whooping, while Wilson's unconditioned fingers struggled futilely for a comeback. They didn't talk much apart from the occasional grunt or curse or small celebratory cheer. They only paused when House took a pill or needed his other hand to mold his leg out of a spasm. After the third time this happened, Wilson knew better than to look.

Now the sun was in the throes of its dusk-induced death, and House was asleep. The inviting whiff of crock-pot black bean chili crept into the room, and it was time for Wilson to go. He stared at the paused screen, then at the small green box he'd tossed by his shoes and neglected to give to House. Then he stared at House, at every new wrinkle and frown line, at his smile lines, thinner somehow, as if they had atrophied (like everything else in the past six months). He held in a chuckle while thinking about what a tumor Chia Pet would look like, then held in a curse for nearly chuckling in the first place.

House's sense of humor had changed, and maybe Wilson's had changed with it. It was darker now, and why wouldn't it be? Funny to House was no longer wicked wordplay and light puns. Now funny was finding examples—examples of over-caring, under-caring, baggy boxers, saggy boobs, celery in teeth and camel toes, and making examples of these examples, and laughing. Mockery, it was the new funny. And while in all honestly it had been funny before…it was from other people, towards other people, not House, not Wilson, least of all Stacy.

But that was then. This was now. Wilson rolled out of the bed, still fighting an urge to laugh. After all, funny was funny, and that was one thing that didn't change.

He grabbed the green box, unwrapped it, and sat it on the nightstand next to House's pills, penning a quick, sloppy note on the gift before leaving.

He gave Stacy a hug, told her things would be alright without knowing if they would be. She seemed convinced. In his own mind, Wilson's entire lifestyle was built upon his ability to create false hope, and he was good at it.

Fifteen minutes after Wilson left, House woke up. He reached clumsily over to the nightstand, where his hand connected not with assorted prescription bottles and a frayed heating pad, but a large book. On the cover, in bold print, was _The Great Big Book of Bathroom Humor_.

On the inside cover, a small, left-handed script read, _Hope this entertains you during your 45 minute shits. _

For the first time in six months, House genuinely laughed.

**#4: The Gift Card**

_"I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early."_

_-Charles Lamb_

Wilson gave House a few moments to act like he was doing something before knocking and entering the office.

House's current fixation was rubber band balls. He'd been working on the same one for two weeks, and had no intention of stopping anytime soon. Because the great thing about rubber band balls is that you can never quite finish them.

He spoke without looking up, both eyes entangled in a steamy affair with a disobedient rubber band. "Why do you bother knocking if you're going to come in anyway?"

Wilson let the door shut behind him. "House, your walls are made of glass. I think I'd know if you were doing something…questionable."

House raised a mischievous eyebrow. "Ah, but would you know if I were _watching_ something…questionable?"

"About that," said Wilson, tugging on his ear, "these walls are not as thick as you think they are."

"Yeah, well neither are yours."

"What?"

Wilson took a step forward and tilted his entire head sideways with confusion. "What have you heard from my office?"

House shrugged and went back to his rubber band ball.

Wilson shuffled the rest of the way over to House's desk, where he leaned over and asked through gritted teeth, "What did you hear?"

House, again without looking up, said, "Nothing that couldn't be assumed from the way you're repeating that question, you naughty, naughty boy."

"House."

"Wilson."

"House!"

"What?" asked House.

"I have no idea what you're talking about!"

House looked up, bouncing the ball slightly. "Oh. I suppose that makes this exchange far less interesting then."

Wilson continued to stare at House, beady-eyed and irrationally nervous. House looked back down. "I hear you rehearsing," he said.

"Rehearsing?"

"Conversations. I hear you practice giving people death sentences. Don't worry, I won't tell Foreman," said House, "I know how much you value his respect for you as pitcher for the Bad News Bears."

Wilson relaxed a little, letting his shoulders drop.

"I heard you rehearsing this conversation," said House.

Wilson went right back to looking like a turtle only partially out of his shell. "House, I—"

"I'm fine."

"Will you stop that?!"

"Stop what?" House bounced the ball on his desk once more.

"You know _exactly_ what," said Wilson, snatching the ball from House's hands. "Stop pretending that everything's okay when it's not. Stop pretending _you're _okay."

House reached out for the ball, sending Wilson a glare of the piercing variety. "Stop pretending you suddenly know everything about me."

Wilson took a few steps back, holding the rubber band ball tight in his left hand. "I don't know. That's why you need to talk to me."

House dragged his thumb across his forehead. "Oh ple—"

"You think this doesn't affect other people? You think this hasn't screwed my life up too?" Wilson eyes crossed from House's left eye to his right. "Every day, I have to watch you crawl in here when you think nobody's watching. You sit there all day, don't even try to get up because you know how bad it'll hurt. And then you crawl home, get smashed, and pass out. Then you do it all over again. And I can't even ask if you're okay." Wilson shook his head, now daring to come closer yet again. "The last time I ran was the last time you ran. I haven't even gone on a walk without you, and all I want is to just sit on that goddamn bench in Bower Park one more time." He looked over House's ace, suddenly feeling disgusted with himself. "I'm sorry, I know it's not the same at all, it's just…" His voice faded out, but he was thinking _I miss you._

Wilson tossed the ball back to House, who caught it and didn't bother bouncing it. House swished the air between his cheeks while he pretended to think, and did some thinking accidentally as well. "Why don't you go make friends with your Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma patients. I heard they hate pretending things are okay."

"I've considered it," said Wilson, folding his arms and shifting his weight.

"And?"

"You've got Tivo," said Wilson, "and with any luck, you'll last longer." He managed a smile. "Oh," he said, "this is for you." He tossed a small blue envelope over to House's desk right-handed, causing it to skim into House's lap.

House looked up questioningly, but without the patience or mind to ask what it was. Wilson obliged. "It's a gift card…to a spa."

"Great. My cuticles _seriously_ need some lovin'."

"House, they've got real, professional masseuses there, more well-trained than our PTs. I figured—"

"I know what you figured," said House, developing an interest for his rubber band ball yet again. "Thanks," he mumbled, palming the gift card into his jacket. And for some reason, that word was significantly harder to say than the hundreds of polysyllabic pieces of medical jargon he'd heard once in med school and then never heard again. But then, you don't get to pick which stuff comes easy.

Wilson turned towards the door, placing his hand on the handle. "I've got more," he said. "Think you can handle coming to me when you need them?"

House stared awhile in a manner that allowed him to seem more vulnerable than he was. He looked down and then back at Wilson before nodding curtly and looking down again.

Wilson nodded back and walked out the door.

House brushed his hand past the little plastic card in his pocket. It was at that moment he decided he was finished with his rubber band ball.

**#5: The Harmonica**

_"Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, 'Where have I gone wrong?' Then a voice says to me, 'This is going to take more than one night.' "_

_-Charlie Brown._

"Diverticulosis."

"You're hunting zebras, Wilson, and they're pissed."

"Colon Cancer?"

"Now you're hunting Wilson-shaped horses, and they're really pissed."

Wilson squinted again, taking in every heavily powdered pore of the woman on the bench across the way. This intense study was interrupted by a passing ice skater. Seven actually, then ten more. "Can't we do this somewhere else?" he whined.

House hung his cane on the metal railing, making a pointed clang in the process as he too stared across the ice rink. "You were the one who wanted to challenge the master. I mean if you can't do it, then—"

"Just, give me a hint or something."

House shrugged, matching Wilson's apathetic lean on the rail. "I gave you a patient. You get five minutes to give me a diagnosis. Unless you want me to find you three socially awkward fellows on an ice rink who'll run extensive tests on your patient, that's all the hints you're getting."

"Actually yes, I would like three fellows please."

"Tick tock, Wilson, you've got…" House shook back his coat to look at his watch. Wilson's watch. "Two minutes left." His smile contained a sickening amount of smugness.

"Chronic appendicitis?"

"Nope."

"Gastroenteritis," said Wilson, this time with the slightest air of confidence.

"Come on. Patient's dying and that's the best you've got?"

A worried crease brought Wilson's eyebrows close enough to kiss each other. "Well, she's not actually…dying, is she?"

"Does that seem like something I would do?"

"Yes."

"Then you better think up something fast."

Wilson went back to staring, which was about as useless as not staring, but it sure made him feel better about it. The woman sat lethargically on the bench, fit enough to skate with the best of them, only…not doing so. Her kids waved proudly as they passed; her husband gave a wink, sometimes a smile, sometimes an oversexed look, which was perhaps a medical mystery in itself. But there she sat with the occasional weak grin and two hands over her stomach.

But then, maybe there was something to that oversexed look. "Pregnancy?"

House craned his neck forward. "Close. Thirty seconds."

"Food poisoning?"

"I'm sorry, on what planet are food poisoning and pregnancy closely correlated?"

Wilson's mouth gave a nervous twitch. "Like a…food baby?"

"Fifteen seconds."

"Uh, uh, okay. Wait. Gas? Ulcers? Kidney stones?"

"No, no, and no. Seven seconds."

"Well, it's a little hard to diagnose someone when the only symptom is stomach pain!" said Wilson, tossing his arms in the air as House's watch beeped.

House pushed himself off the rail. "It's not the symptoms, it's the impact of the symptoms on the patient. Does that patient looked scared?" he said, nodding in the direction of the woman.

Wilson looked, frowned, answered, "No."

"So we can conclude that's it's something she's familiar with. Very familiar, seeing as her husband doesn't seem too worried about it either."

Wilson snuffled out a sort of nervous laugh before also leaning back. "Cramps. You had me diagnosing menstrual cramps at a skating rink."

House turned and started walking. Wilson didn't need an invitation to follow. "Well," said House, "it may have been more obvious at a Book of the Month club."

They stopped to catch a taxi, not exactly caring if one came. A shooting star zipped across the sky, but House and Wilson didn't notice. "What'd I tell you? You can't go one-on-one with Shaq with flip flops on," said House, rolling his shoulders back.

"Well you couldn't go one-on-one with Shaq period, so I'm not sure the metaphor applies," said Wilson to House's slightly humbler (if possible) smirk. Wilson shivered, admiring his breath in the air. "I need coffee." He visualized the wallet in his left back pocket, more specifically the lack of cash in it. "Do you see an ATM around?"

"Why, did Cuddy steal all your cash when she date-raped you?"

Wilson pulled out his real wallet, just to check. "Rape doesn't exist for the willing, House."

House made one of those "Oooh" sounds typically reserved for rowdy fraternity members who boasted larger penises than nature would allow. "Then of course, how would she hear any screams of protest against the sound of her biological clock ticking?"

They chuckled, becoming acutely aware of their own blank stares towards the traffic. When a taxi finally did come, they made a point to shoot pitiful glances in the direction of any possible competition, which tonight, was a middle aged couple that only wanted to take the cab to shorten the awkward silence on the way home, where they would engage in more awkward silence. They took one look at the cane and let House and Wilson have the taxi.

House opened his mouth to tell the driver his address just in time for Wilson to give the name of a restaurant. Then he shut up and pretended he hadn't planned the entire exchange.

Wilson sat next to him pretending he didn't know he was paying for all of this. He shifted his legs to make more room for one of House's legs, scooting as close to the window as he could. He grunted some childlike, 1950s exclamation as a little rectangular object in his back pocket hit a previously undiscovered pressure point on his rump. He took it out, looking it over. "Oh, I forgot," he said, tossing it to House, "happy birthday."

"My birthday isn't for another week," said House, starting to unwrap the small gift.

Wilson tilted his head. "That may be, but your present isn't spending one more second cutting off blood supply to my ass."

"What is it?"

"Open it."

House did so, holding it up and noting, "A harmonica," perhaps for clarity's sake.

Wilson snickered at the odd reaction, and said, "The one instrument you don't know how to play." He shook his head thoughtfully: in the hours and hours House had spent alone learning more songs and instruments than he'd ever have time to play, he had never learned the harmonica, which to Wilson was a mystery far greater than menstrual cramps at ice rinks.

House scratched the back of his ear nervously. "Well, my didgeridoo's a little rusty," he said.

He looked out the window and smiled. Only, it wasn't a happy, grateful, "here, dinner's on me tonight" type of smile. It was a dark, sinful smile, oh so worthy of Machiavelli.

Wilson looked over, his own smile hiding in the presence of what was obviously unadulterated evil. "What?"

"You pulled that out of your left pocket, and yet you switched it over to your right hand to toss it to me."

"…Because you're on my right side, House."

House looked up at the driver, who was thankfully looking at the road, and slid the plastic window shut. "No no no, you could've just as easily, if not more easily, tossed it with your dominate hand."

Wilson found his shoes suddenly very interesting. So much so in fact, he didn't feel like looking anywhere else. This wasn't just 'spur of the moment House observation #92,' this was something his friend had obviously been wanting to spring on him for a very long time.

House took a soon-to-be deserved breath and continued. "You're left handed in almost everything you do. I mean, most of the time your right hand's just a cool parasite that gives you symmetry," he mused. "But when you toss things, not throw, but toss them, you _always _use your right hand."

Wilson didn't roll his eyes only because he was still staring at his feet. "Which means?"

House's eyes became two extremely self-satisfied little slits. "Your right wrist is stronger than your left wrist…because you exercise it more."

Wilson raised his head. "You're…accusing me of jerking off right-handed? Wow House, that would just ruin me," he said, deadpan.

"I'm accusing you of jerking off to your own erotic poetry."

Wilson thought his heart might've stopped very briefly, just long enough to send a giant jolt of "Oh shit" throughout his veins. "H-how would, B-but you, WHAT?"

"Well, your left hand has to be doing something."

Wilson squinted at House, who squinted back for different reasons. "What if I'm—"

"You've got the prose skills of a second grader and the artistic ability of one not yet out of the womb."

"Why would that—"

"And of course, there's your insistent need to quote Thoreau whenever you see a pretty sunset. Really, you left me know choice but to—"

"House, I-I," Wilson gulped in a few breaths before leaning in and very quietly whispering, "Swear to me this doesn't leave the cab."

As if a promise would matter.

House didn't answer, merely leaned back and blew a few off notes into the harmonica.

"House! Swear to me…"

Wilson tilted his head, a sluggish smile beginning to spread across his face. "Are you…blackmailing me into paying for dinner?"

"Are you going to pay for dinner?"

"Yes."

"Then no, I'm not blackmailing you. Merely pointing out a fact." He closed his eyes as if abruptly bored with the conversation.

Wilson growled and grumbled nothing in particular before leaning over and whispering, "I have crap on you too, House. Your mother tells me stuff you wouldn't believe."

"Your close with my mother?"

"Very close."

"I gotta say, Wilson, I didn't think you stoop so low as to exploit a poor old woman like—"

"Hey fellas, this is the place!" called the driver from beyond the plastic barrier. He didn't have to project very much, and the thought that they'd just been speaking as loudly, if not louder, quite frightened Wilson.

Wilson stepped out first once the taxi had come to a stop, holding out a cane and a hand for House, one of which was taken. They crossed the street with the feeling of just leaving a tuberculosis ward, for Wilson at least.

They were halted by the voice of the cabbie, the one they forgot to pay. They walked back reluctantly, as one is wont to do when approaching a tuberculosis ward.

"How much?" asked Wilson.

"That'll be $37.43," said the driver.

Wilson looked from the driver to House, and smiled. "Oh," he said, "my friend's taking care of it. He's paying me back for the rubber sheets I bought him a while back, seeing as he wet the bed until he was twelve."

Wilson walked past House and into the restaurant. House tossed a fifty at the guy before breaking the cripple speed record across the street and tearing into the restaurant as well. Once inside, he frowned, then smiled.

-----------------------

To this day, House has no idea why Blythe decided to share that particular piece of information with Wilson.

**Epilogue: The Walk**

"_Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow; Don't walk behind me, I may not lead; Walk beside me, and just be my friend."_

_-Albert Camus_

House was the type of person who interpreted the Welcome mat literally. Waiting to be let in just seemed silly right after being given permission to enter from a small mat on the stoop.

Wilson was in a t-shirt and sweatpants. It was either that, or he'd spend the morning lounging around in a suit and tie. He owned one pair of jeans, still yet to be broken in, and the thought of essentially putting a corset on his privates for the better part of Christmas Eve didn't appeal to him, for one reason or another. He knew he'd put those jeans in their place soon, get it over with all at once and they'd be fine. But that day wouldn't be today, because Wilson didn't feel like that day being today.

Wilson was putting the ham in his omelet when out of the corner of his eye, he saw what appeared to be a human nose. What was even odder was the voice coming from the nose, or rather the mouth that shared a face with the nose. "Don't forget the cheese."

Wilson jumped with as manly a yelp as possible, the bits of ham scattering along the floor. "Jesus, House, what are you doing in here?"

"I'm not peeing, which I assume makes you proud," said House, heaving his backside onto the butcher block while Wilson engaged a delayed five-second rule, and fervently gathered up the bits of ham.

"Why do you think I'm here? I'm hungry," groaned House, taking the liberty of making the oven handle a cane holder.

"And the IHOP twenty seconds from your apartment was…closed?"

"They can't make Mickey Mouse crepes like you, Buddy."

"Pancakes," sighed Wilson. "No one makes Mickey Mouse _crepes._"

"Whatever. Just fix me one of those," said House, pointing to the omelet.

Wilson shrugged indifferently, and nodded at the fridge. "I'm out of eggs."

"Then whip out the Bisquick and make us some Mickey Mouse crepes!"

Wilson folded the omelet over. He edged over to the cabinet, got two plates, and cut the omelet in half.

"Why are you really here?" he said.

House munched happily while he looked up and mumbled, "I've got my mouth full of a delicious omelet and you're asking me why I'm here?"

Wilson shoveled his half into his mouth, giving an equally garbled response of, "How'd you know I wasn't having plain yogurt and tea without sugar?"

"Impossible. Your teeth are _way_ too crappy for you to be drinking sugarless tea." House grabbed his cane off the oven handle and reached it over to the countertop to grab his backpack. "Plus, I got you something."

He pried a white styrofoam cup out of the side mesh of his bag and held it out to Wilson by its black, plastic top.

"Coffee?" said Wilson

House nodded, still holding the cup. "Why'd you get me coffee?" asked Wilson suspiciously. House shrugged even more suspiciously and nudged the cup closer to Wilson.

"Uh, thanks," said Wilson, taking the cup.

He didn't need to open it. "House, this cup is empty."

"Oh yeah," said House dramatically, hopping off the butcher block and dispensing his weight on the countertop, "I forgot. I drank it."

Wilson set the cup aside and leaned on the counter as well. "So…the six minute drive from your place had you jonesing for caffeine to the point that you _drank_ your reason for coming over?"

"Something like that."

"Amazing, how you can still come up with ways to brutally rape trustworthiness."

"Relax," said House, tilting his head at Wilson's colorful verb choice. "They sell coffee in the park if you're that thirsty."

"Well if I were that thirsty I'd be gulping down orange juice, not…wait. Bower Park?"

"No, the other park thirty seconds from your apartment."

Wilson scoffed with annoyance, then frowned as if considering something. "How much?"

"A dollar."

Wilson crossed his arms and gazed intensely at House, at his odd, almost anxious smile. "That's why you're here," he said.

"What's why I'm here?"

Wilson smiled, pointing enthusiastically. "You-you want to go to the park!"

House groaned. He took a step back. "Why on Earth would I want to go to the park?"

Wilson shrugged, and hopped up to sit on the counter, this time leaving House alone on the floor. He didn't quite look House in the eye. "It's been awhile."

House stared straight ahead, like a suicidal deer in headlights. No fear or insecurity, just a nod into the inevitable. For a moment, Wilson swore the old House was back. A moment later, he decided that this House would do just fine.

"I'll get my coat," said Wilson.

---------------

Wilson's coffee was one of three shared by the men as they meandered around the park. They passed a familiar oak tree, still gnarled and angry-looking. House nodded to the bench across the way, teetering in that direction and downing two pills, but otherwise looking no worse for wear. And as odd as it sounds, they found they much more enjoyed sitting and watching than they had ever enjoyed running. So they sat on the bench and watched the world quite literally go by, marveling at how much faster it now seemed to be.

House rubbed his leg absently, watching the joggers in their coats and hats and expensive shoes. He leaned over to Wilson and said, "Tomorrow, let's just sit."

Wilson seemed to like that idea. He looked into his empty coffee suspiciously before suppressing a sigh at its absence, like the absence of a dear friend or something.

House waved two dollars in front of Wilson's face. "Get me one, too," he said.

Wilson did, taking only two minutes by measure of House's stopwatch. But of course, the numerous scuff marks made it hard to tell. Wilson came back with two steaming cups and sat down again. House didn't say 'thank you,' but then, neither did Wilson.

House and Wilson sipped their coffee without speaking except for one to say to the other that they might like to do this again sometime, just for old time's sake, as after all, new times can't exist without old times.

The sun drowned in some overly-elaborate color palette behind the oak tree, and for once it didn't look quite so ugly. Its shadows made fault lines of the cracks in the sidewalk, and dragged off the bench like accidental pencil strokes. Nobody noticed; it was too dark to see. Another day farther away from the garden of Eden. Another day closer to...everything else.

They stayed a little longer to watch Christmas begin.

**The End**


End file.
